I’m listening to the new Bon Iver album for what is, honestly, probably the hundredth time this week.

Today’s weather is perfect. The sun is out but without threats to burn or cause a sweat. The breeze is faint but cool, and from upstairs I can hear the blinds being sucked into the open screen every so often. I’m content here, sipping hot tea and nibbling a leftover slice of homemade cake.

As the days continue, I am getting more and more comfortable with my time at home, and rarely feel without purpose. Things are getting done, relationships are being tended to, and life is being designed.

The strangest part, really, is how different one week is from the next. I have a planner that I use daily and love love LOVE, but as much as I try to anticipate what next Thursday will be, the picture is rarely complete.

Lunch dates come up. Or opportunities for new experiences. Or the shelves above the dining room table *need* rearranging, and also, the two things I couldn’t cross off my to-do list on Monday are still there on Thursday and are mocking me and I’m over them so I’m procrastinating.

Stuff like that.

None of it is bad, but again, it's different. I’m a woman of routine and expectations and plans, and my biggest lesson in the last few months has been remembering that just because this Wednesday didn’t look anything like last Wednesday doesn’t mean I have done something wrong or off-script or unproductive.

My days are simply more elastic now. They are moldable and adaptable and won’t always resemble each other, and that’s okay. The beauty is that time is my friend, and I can choose how to organize those minutes and hours into moments that give life and bring joy. This is a privilege; it is freeing but brimming with responsibility, and I hope to remember that.

This morning I re-joined the yoga studio I was apart of when I first moved to Pasadena, and I am SO excited. Yoga is the only fitness-related-activity that I have ever claimed loving, and have ever done consistently, and being back on that mat is a homecoming I couldn’t have dreamed of. When I bend to touch my toes, my hamstrings feel the effects of their earlier reawakening, a welcome reminder of the work they did.

I’m also starting a small, book-editing project, and am elated. It can be overwhelming at first, and many doubts say hiiiiiiiiiii, I’m heeeeeere tooooooooo, but really, I know I’m going to do a good job with the knowledge and experience I do have, and I am eternally grateful to be given a chance at all. Writing is my jam, but editing is my jam too.

Bon Iver has sung his 10 songs twice through now, and I’m ready for the next thing. I'm happy to have been here, and hope it won’t be as long until I’m back again.

Three years ago, I got dropped off in front a student housing building.

The truck that I had driven throughout high school, and had now moved me to Pasadena, CA, broke down on the 605 within 5 days of being an Angeleno, so I needed a ride.

I used my key-card to enter the building, and once inside the elevator, pushed the desired level: 3.

A smell from the hallway lingered in my nose as I moved through stories 1 and 2—a mix between stale children’s clothing, played in the day before and still sitting on the floor 24 hours later, and dinner cooking from nearby apartments. When I visit now, that smell hits me square in the face; I remember it so clearly, and it brings me right back.

The elevator opens and I tell myself this is going to be great! I can do this. it’s just an introductory day, I won’t be alone, I’ll have help.

Although my thoughts have a grasp on themselves, my heart-rate is a different story. I’m nervous, and my body knows it. Everything has been so new in the last week, and here I am, starting a job with a family I don’t know, doing something I haven’t technically done before: nannying a 5-month-old baby.

I knock gently, and through the door I immediately hear what later would become a normal and endearing greeting, “Ayden! Who’s heeeeere!"

Ashley opens the door, and I’m welcomed into their small but inviting 2-bedroom apartment. Ayden sits in her high-chair, wearing nothing but a diaper, and her big, brown eyes look at me curiously. To think about a time where I didn’t know what it was like to see those eyes looking into mine seems crazy now.

Ayden is just finishing lunch, a mix of rice cereal and breast milk, and is almost ready for her mid-day nap. Ashley is good about providing context and narrating where we are at in the day. I mostly pay attention and observe.

We all go into Ayden’s room to get her ready for nap-time. I’m walked through diaper-changes, the bedtime routine, and how this whole experience, generally speaking, should go. I listen to the song Ashely plays on her phone for Ayden, and it’s one I would also play throughout that first year. I remember the lyrics, the countless times we sung them, the countless times Ayden cried throughout the duration of it because she knew it wasn’t playtime anymore. Ashley pulls out the book they read before each nap, and I settle on the floor in the front of the rocking chair, absorbing all I can.

She starts, “Little Nutbrown Hare, who was going to bed, held on tight to Big Nutbrown Hare’s verrrrry long ears."

I watch as Ayden sits in Ashley’s lap, mostly staying still but every so often grabbing one of the pages, and feel the attachment forming quickly. My heart-rate is steady, and at peace. I know this is going to work out. I know this is going to be good.

Ashley finishes the book, sweetly whispering I love you all the way to the moon…and back and closes its cover.

She says a simple prayer over Ayden, tells her goodnight, and sets her in the crib. Ayden does well, and we quietly exit.

The next couple hours, Ashley goes over the eat-wake-sleep schedule they have found success with for Ayden, and I take mental notes. We make lunch together, and prep dinner together—Ashley accidentally pours a full cup of oatmeal into the bean salad I’m making, and we laugh, a lot. I remember thinking how much I already liked her, and how comfortable I felt. I stayed and ate with them that night, so I could meet Ayden’s Dada, Emanuel, and so we could all get to know each other better.

Today, I’ve been a nanny for this family for 3 years. It blows my mind. I have watched Ayden grow up, and I have watched her sister Avery grow up, and I have experienced the insane joy that comes from being a primary caregiver.

The Itzhakian’s took a big risk on me the night they uttered the words I so desperately wanted to hear: You’re hired!

I was sitting in a dimly lit car, and the three of us were Skyping my interview. (WHO SITS IN A CAR FOR THEIR JOB INTERVIEW, C’MON ALYSSA.) Seriously, though, they had no reason to trust me aside from my own claims and my references. I was 350 miles away and we had never met, and all they had was the promise that I’d be moving within the month if I got hired.

When I did, I called Mack immediately and shared the celebratory news: GUESS WHO’S MOVING TO PASADENAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

So on September 12, 2013, I drove from Lodi to Pasadena with my dad and a U-Haul trailer, and on September 19 I officially became Sa.

I was processing this with Ashley last week, and I told her how my experiences with the girls, and with their family overall, have shaped so much of who I am. She knows this already, as do I, but each time I stop to reflect, I am genuinely dumbfounded. A version of myself without the Sa part is unimaginable. I think about these relationships, each so unique yet completely synchronized, and I think about the all-bearing but slow-building nature of them.

Stepping into a family as their nanny means you step in the everyday of their lives. And it’s almost immediate, too. You step into the reality of dirty dishes and dirty diapers. You step into relational dynamics as parents reveal their personalities and process decisions in front of you and with you. You step into honest conversations and opportunities to share, and you realize that so much of this job is what you make it.

Both the Itzhakians and I wanted the same thing from my role as their nanny: a commitment to investing in the life of this family, rather than a temporary babysitting gig that would help move me to LA.

So here we are now, 3 years later. We’ve celebrated together and mourned together, over major things and minor things. We’ve worked together and problem-solved. We don’t fight, but we stay honest with each other. We’ve shared conversations over lego-building and baby-feeding and I wouldn’t have this life—this life as Sa, as #nannyforever—any other way. They are my family, and today I celebrate that enormous, beautiful blessing.

And just for fun, here's something I wrote in Decemeber 2013, after I had a few months of nannying under my belt (it's all truer than ever, too):

More than anything else I'm doing, though, I love being a nanny. I love being apart of another family and I love being immersed in day-to-day life with them. It feels so purposeful and tangible and bigger-than-me, and those are "job-qualities" I find extremely important. I can't believe I get paid to hang out with a beautiful, growing, learning, baby girl. I can't believe I get paid to foster a relationship with her AND her parents. I can't believe I get paid to cook, to drink tea and eat kettle corn while Ayden naps, to simply go through life with each of them. They are so generous to me, and I just can't express my gratitude enough.

With my eyes shut, although admittedly flitting, I waited…and waited some more.

Wait. Are we praying? Did I hear that correctly? The music is pretty loud in he—

His voice starts again, this time breaking, as he quietly concludes the prayer:

“Thank you (pause) for our new friends. (final pause) We love you. Amen."

I look up at him, no more than a stranger two hours prior, and am somewhat dumbfounded at this mark of authenticity. It is seeping from his seat across the table and pooling at my feet, making me unable to resist its absorption even if I tried.

His wife proclaims her amen, and without missing a beat, names the moment for what it was, almost to make light of it without taking away its significance: “You got a little weepy!"

Immediately, I like them.

They are in their mid-60’s (maybe?) and comfortable in conversation. Before our food arrived and the prayer was uttered, they had already asked about Mack and myself, wondering what our interests were and if we are pursuing them. There was no lull in topics as words were exchanged, and not because someone was hogging the floor or just filling conversational space, but because the ease with which they shared, and asked, was so natural.

The husband is relatable and also incredibly compelling, which is probably why he has a knack for story-telling. He told stories of the homeless people he’s befriended on his daily walks, and how he and his wife have made their home available in different ways, at different times, for different reasons. It might be a shower for someone, or a back patio to sleep on for another. It might be help filling out paper work, with the hope of receiving available resources.

He talked about hospital trips with one man in particular, and the hours of waiting, and the looks they got as they did. He was open with the struggles he and his wife sometimes endure, like struggles of boundaries or comprehension, and I was struck by their unwavering compassion in the face of others’ hardships, while still maintaining a sound sense of reality and practicality.

His wife introduced herself to me seconds after church had ended, and by my first impression, I thought she would be the talker of the two.

“Do you go along with that guy up there?”“I sure do!” I said, looking towards Mack.“Great! Well, I go along with that guy back there, and we would like to take you both to lunch today, okay?"

Our pastor had just challenged the congregation to break bread with someone new in the following week, and she literally wasted no time. I was a little taken aback at first, but just as instantly, incredibly humbled by this woman who approached someone new with no other agenda than to eat together and learn about each other.

Once at lunch, it became clear that she held a quiet confidence and enjoyed hearing her husband share about their lives. She ate her Cobb salad in small bites, interjecting commentary where applicable. If asked a question directly, she answered clearly but succinctly, and held a modesty towards any accomplishments mentioned or attributes attained.

They were both that way, actually. Both ready and willing to share who they were and where they came from. Ready to welcome us, their guests, as one of their own. Ready to highlight why they did what they did, but with no air of superiority or pride.

It came up that I was a writer, and after hearing how colorful their lives had been, I half-jokingly, half-seriously remarked how I should write about them.

They unanimously denounced that idea, not wanting to garner attention towards themselves, and I get it.

But I couldn’t not, ya know?

I can withhold specific details (and believe me, I am, A LOT), but experiencing their intentionality and hospitality meant that on a Sunday after church, my knowledge of Jesus was extended past the services I had just attended, and into the realm of tangible, everyday life. With four spoons we scraped down the sides of a pan holding monkey bread and ice cream, everyone encouraging the other to savor the final bite, until the faces that had been unfamiliar were unfamiliar no more. We may have sat down as strangers, but we left as friends.

Time and time again, I have learned that I know Jesus best through people. The potential that lies simmering at the surface of any interaction is both intimidating and enthralling. When poked, though, and stirred, there is usually a depth there, and in that depth is where ordinary moments become sacred.

I don’t always pursue these moments, and more often than not, I actively push them away. But when I am compelled to say yes, it is honestly a wonder that I ever considered saying no. So today, as I reflect on that meal and those couple hours spent together, I echo that beautifully simple prayer: thank you, God, for new friends.

I had a doctor’s appointment at a new office, and based on the reviews online, I was nervous. I was nervous he wouldn’t be a “real” doctor, and that I’d be wasting my time visiting this unfamiliar man in a small medical building on a street I pass almost every day.

Thankfully, I was wrong. (At least for now.) He was kind, and patiently listened to the “hodgepodge” of reasons I was in. Rather than just an exchange of medical information, he asked genuine questions in an attempt to know me (and Mack, who I mentioned) better.

The office still might not exude SUPER PROFESSIONAL AND WORLD-RENOWNED HEALTH CARE, but, I’m learning to let go of that.

At 24, I mostly need basic care anyway, and in my book, kindness goes a long way towards future trust. (Real talk, though—finding reputable people in any medical field when you have an HMO plan is one of the biggest challenges I’ve had in the last year. My resources basically include my online insurance portal, but 50 pages of names is overwhelming and impersonal. A Google search helps, maybe giving you an image or a few reviews, but that can also be what turns you away. Any recommendations I’ve tried getting from friends result in dead-ends because of PPO plans. IT IS EXHAUSTING. I’m playing major catch-up right now, too, which is why I had two appointments in two days, but again…I’m trying to chill. My doctor said today, “I can tell you are a worrying type…you need to stop doing that, it isn’t good for you.” HE’S RIGHT.)

Anyway. After another couple hours in health-land, I stuck to my plan from earlier in the week, which was to FINALLY change my name with the bank. Once I got home, I had lunch, and had to seriously consider, and re-consider, whether I would stay home and work, or get back out and go to a coffee shop; there is a smaller shop we love in Pasadena that is perfect for a mid-day visit, and now that I have a laptop without the need to be plugged in 24/7 (THANK YOU ITZHAKIAN’S), it’s a great option for a quick environment change.

I couldn’t have coffee this morning after my fillings yesterday, so I was craving it and feeling minor effects from not having it. I could just make coffee here, though, and write on the couch before getting started on dinner later. I don’t need to go out…what if it’s crowded and I don’t get a spot? Ugh THE EFFORT.

Thankfully, I quickly realized the ridiculousness of those thoughts since it was only ELEVEN-FORTY-FIVE IN THE MORNING and reminded myself that I could enjoy the space, both literally and figuratively, for a good three hours and still have plenty of time to prepare dinner in the slow, rhythmic way I prefer.

So out the door I went, and PRAISE THE LORD I did.

The shop was almost empty when I walked in, but within 10 minutes a rush came and the seats quickly filled with others looking to read, write, and gather. I ordered an Ethiopian pour-over (my favorite, and a luxury every time) and once I cupped the clear, glass mug in my hands, staring directly at the black liquid soon to inspire and invigorate, I had my moment.

It’s the moment that gets me just about every morning right before the first sip of coffee, and then right after. It’s a tangible moment, where the warmth from the mug permeating my hands meets the warmth of the coffee sliding down my throat, which of course collides with the blast of flavor throwing a party on my tongue.

I don’t have to work very hard to pause here, and take note. This experience is a small one but holds so much within it, and today, I might have missed it had I chosen to stay home. Yesterday, not so much. But today, when the desire to flip on Netflix was stronger than the desire to open a word document, choosing to leave was a discipline.

Since beginning to write, I’ve finished my coffee and enjoyed being a participant in the life around me. A smiley baby boy cooed in my direction as his dad ordered at the counter, and I got to ask how old he was, and his name, and have a brief exchange that brought another moment of joy. I can still hear his babbles as I finish typing this, and with one last glance, I see him playing with his bottle, encompassed in a world where right now, his needs are being cared for, and that’s all he needs to know. Also, every person who has walked by smiles as they pass the stroller, which is another simple, happy thing to witness.

Day 3’s story is a bit fuller now, and a bit more colorful. I’ll remember this when it’s hard to leave home, and I’ll remember that living feels more like living when our moments don’t look exactly the same, day-in and day-out.

That was at the dentist this morning. Apparently when you don’t go for 16 months (I know, I know) your gums bleed more than usual and then you get called a vampire.

YIKES.

I had a few fillings done, which hasn’t happened since I was kid, so I spent a good 2 hours holding my own suction straw, wearing safety glasses, and trying to understand instructions amidst the sounds of drilling, scraping, and washing.

It actually wasn’t bad, though. Everyone was incredibly kind and communicative, which is helpful as a first-time patient. The hygienist was soft-spoken but also had some serious personality. I mentioned how I could tell I would be sore for a day or two, but she reminded me that she "knows how to use her instruments," and that her patients don’t experience pain afterwards. She also made sure to apply Vaseline around my mouth with a Q-Tip, because as she said, “When patient’s mouth is dry, I cannot stand it. I feel like my mouth is dry, too.” Every time she cleaned for awhile without stopping, she remarked how much liquid was pooling, and how I should use the suction more (MORE!) because otherwise it’s hard to work. I appreciated getting a little control, but it was also difficult to access the real estate with two other hands and tools occupying the same space. I did, however, like her a lot, and she was extremely thorough. Even when she thought she finished, she took one more look and worked a few minutes longer, wanting to “get every last bit.” (Again, YIKES on my part).

In other news, our thank-you cards from the wedding are DONE. Written, stamped, addressed, glued, and ready to throw in the mail. They were written in two chunks, so if some of you get cards saying, “Hope your summer is off to a great start!” just pretend I actually wrote, “Hope you had an awesome summer!” because unfortunately a couple months went by between stack 1 and stack 2.

Since I posted yesterday, I shared on Facebook that I discovered a lady named Laura Vandekamp, who has this crazy (not actually) belief that we as people DO HAVE ENOUGH TIME. She wrote a book called 168 Hours, where she details what time meant to her after intentionally keeping a time-log for an ENTIRE YEAR. Every half-hour of every day, she kept kept track of what she did, and after 12 months, categorized and averaged her results. Inspirational to say the least.

I of course had to try it, so I’m keeping a log for at least the week. Our brains are the weirdest and the coolest; the smallest of a shift mentally can have such a large impact. I’ve had the best two days "at home," working on stuff, taking breaks, and feeling MOTIVATED. Awareness and accountability (even from a silly Excel document) go a long way, who knew? If anyone else is interested in keeping a log, let me know! I would love to participate in it alongside you.

I’ve written a ton this last year, which has been a victory worth celebrating, but the next challenge is hitting the “publish” button more frequently, because I need that practice, and I’m ready for it. It also turns out that actual interaction is about a million times better than zero interaction. So those of you who offered input yesterday, thank you (again). :)